Don't Wait Up
by xxurielxx
Summary: Alfred attends the wedding of his once closest friends. Dark memories and feelings plague his experience as he questions, "what if...?" (AU, One-shot. Full warnings inside)


**A/N:** Hello there, and welcome to this lovely little one shot. Here are a few warnings: I wrote this in a twenty-three hour period, so it is sloppy and unedited. I've never written a kissing scene before, yet in this I attempted a brief masturbation/borderline sex scene. This is the very first of its kind written by my pathetic mind. I felt like line breaks were too heavy to separate current and past events. Look for changes in tense to avoid confusion. The plot is a bit foggy and unclear, so if there are any questions, go ahead and ask. I'll answer to the best of my ability via PM.

Warnings: OOC-ness, drinking, heavy swearing, sex talk, and more!

Disclaimer: Hetalia, I own not.

Alfred's tongue darts out, licking chapped lips. He stuffs his hands into his pants' pockets, twiddles his thumbs against the slick fabric, and scrunches his shoulders. A crease forms between his eyes. His muscles tense, apprehensive. A wide, breathtaking smile pulls at his cheeks. The grin refuses to waver.

The line ahead moves slow, trickling to a stop every few minutes. Chatter fills the air. A sea of faces surrounds him. Some he vaguely recognizes—they are touched by time with maturity sparking in their eyes and wedding bands gracing their fingers. His eyes fall on each ring, gold or silver, intricate or plain, and a pang strikes his chest. He looks forward, into the back of a nameless head. Soon enough, it is his turn.

He's on edge; he has been since he first received his invitation in the mail.

The guest book is opened to the fifth page. Signatures and blessings dressed in black ink stain the ivory paper. The attached pen feels heavy and thick in his palm. For a second, he forgets how to write in cursive, his name, and, most importantly, how to write his name in cursive. His throat dries. He taps the pen against the paper.

 _Tap, tap, taptaptap._

A person behind him coughs; muscle memory kicks into action. Like water, his hand flows across the paper, leaving his penmanship in its wake. There's no message, no wish of happiness or luck. Just his name. Proof he showed up. Proof he still cared.

He shuffles into the reception hall. His jaw slacks.

White crystals hang from the ceiling in long, glistening strands. They hang just out of reach, a silent message for guests not to touch. Up-lighting stains white walls a powder blue. The floors are mostly a dark carpet, but in the large room's center, a wooden dance floor shines in the dim lighting. A long table stretches across the front of the room. To its right is a makeshift DJ stand. To its left is the cake, but at his distance, Alfred couldn't make out its details. Circular tables dot the room. Each wears a white table cloth, and in the center is a small crystal vase with a thin white tree branch raising up into the air. Small blue crystals hang from the branch's limbs like little, beautiful bodies.

He doesn't want to be here. If he left, no one would notice.

His assigned table is near the front, close to the DJ. He takes his seat, glancing around. Not much longer.

Others take their seats. A bubble of anticipation fills the air. Talking only intensifies the growing stress Alfred feels mounting in his chest. It clutches his heart and gives a teasing squeeze. He doesn't want to be here.

The lights turn off, filling the reception hall with a thick darkness broken by cell phones and camera flashes. The DJ speaks, loud and enthusiastic, "Ladies and gentlemen, help me introduce the new Mr. and Mrs. Arthur and Fran Kirkland."

The lights burst to life, and the crowd erupts into boisterous cheers. There they are, hands clasped together, arms raised in triumph and joy.

His eyes flutter pass Fran, straight to Arthur.

Arthur hasn't changed, Alfred notes as a his smile falters. The other man is short with a bit of fat around the middle, giving him an overall soft appearance. His blond hair lies flat against his head, slicked and stylish for the occasion. He wears a flattering pewter grey suit, a powder blue tie, and the widest smile Alfred has ever seen.

He really doesn't want to be here.

They were juniors in high school when Fran called him to her house one early Saturday morning. He plopped down onto her parents' floral couch. If it wasn't for a hissed warning from her mother, he would have kicked his feet up onto the coffee table. He watched Fran play with her fingers. This week coral pink colored her trimmed nails. He met her eyes for a moment before she turned away, a blush staining her cheeks.

Fran didn't wear embarrassment well.

Fran was both attractive and horribly revolting. She was trapped in one of those awkward stages teenagers went through. Her face's contours took a delicate shape with high but narrow cheek bones and a thin, rounded nose, and no acne scarred her skin. She kept her hair long and tied back into a loose braid that hung down her back. Her wide eyes had this water-like clarity to them, like she had nothing to hide. On the other hand, metal filled her mouth, and her teeth were crooked and twisted as though someone took pliers to her gums. Plus, compared to other girls, her curves were nonexistent.

Fran snapped her fingers in front of Alfred's nose. "Pay attention," she said, scowling at him. Her cheeks still burned a dusty pink.

His head bobbed; sleep called to him. It was way too early to deal with her shit. "I am."

"Good." She crossed her arms over her chest. "As I'm sure you know, the prom is just around the corner."

"Around the what? It's three months away."

She waved her hand, dismissing him. "That isn't the point."

Alfred's eyes widened. "Oh no. You're not asking me, are you?"

A look of pure disgust overtook her features, making her a bit uglier than usual. A shudder burst through her body, because going with Alfred was clearly the prime example of an all time low. She shook her head, and her face returned to its neutral state. "Hell no."

Her mother walked into the living room, saying, "watch your mouth, Franny." With her, she carried a silver platter. A stack of golden brown pancakes sat in the center with a plate on either side. A fork and knife laid across each plate, and a lone bottle of syrup waited near the top. "Here, you two. I hope you like pancakes, Alfred."

"Sure do, Ma'am." He beamed at her. He was young, handsome, and that smile of his was charm incarnate.

"Thanks, Mom," Fran said. She stared at her mother without blinking. She pointed to the door with her pupils. It took the other woman a moment to catch the hint. "Alright, as I was saying...prom."

Alfred dished two pancakes onto his plate. The succulent scent of vanilla rose from the golden doughy disks. A trail of drool dripped from his bottom lip. "Yup, prom. What about it?" He grabbed the syrup and popped the lid off. Sweet, sweet maple greeted him.

Fran returned to playing with her fingers, silent. She twisted her pinkie around and popped the joints. She looked at her lap. "I know we all promised to go as a group," she began, "but I want to ask Arthur to go with me." A blank stare met her. A piece of pancake fell from Alfred's fork and landed on his jeans. Syrup sunk through the indigo fabric. "As my date. Together. Alone. You know, without any company." The clarification didn't erase Alfred's confusion. If anything it made it worse.

His jaw slacked and clamped shut, slacked and clamped shut over and over again. Words eluded him. The fork found itself back on the platter. He made mad gestures, fingers pointing everywhere but nowhere. A panicked grumble came from his throat. Something dark and dirty settled in his stomach. Finally, he yelled, "why?"

She smacked his shoulder. "Shut up. I don't want Mom knowing. She isn't Arthur's biggest fan."

"But, why? All you two do is bicker with each other."

Her blush returned in full force. Pink conquered her entire face. "I know, but I can't help it. I...I think I love him."

Arthur holds Fran at her hips. He pulls her closer, torso against torso. His nails dig into the fabric of her gown. His head tilts up; all he sees is her and there is nothing but joy clouding his eyes. Together they twirl around the dance floor. Each step is careful and practiced. The song playing features faint acoustic guitar strumming and a romantic piano melody, no lyrics. It sounds somewhere between indie alternative and pop, but it fits the couple well.

Fran is stunning. Any awkwardness from the past she shed; only a eloquent beauty remains. Her gown, white as the winter snow, hugs her body. Each plump curve is highlighted and emphasized. A plunging back shows the guests her smooth skin. Small beads encrust her chest. She sparkles like a goddess. As she spins in her husband's arms, she's far away, floating on a private piece of heaven.

Alfred tries not to gawk; he turns to his drink. Bubbles rise to the surface and pop. Sparkling water, how pretentious. The night has only begun, and already he counts the minutes until he can leave. It's been a life time since he last saw his childhood friends, and he feels no need to remedy the fact.

"Fucking hell, you tore me," Arthur said. "There's fucking blood all over the sheets. How the hell am I going to explain this? For fuck's sake." A stream of curses continued to pour from Arthur's mouth. He climbed off the bed, moving his legs with care. He stood, straightened his back, released a yelp, and fell back onto the bed. More curses followed.

The room smelled of musk and copper. Red streaks crossed over the expanse of Arthur's bedding. As they dried, they turned rusty brown. The overhead lights were off. A night stand lamp provided all the illumination needed.

Alfred leaned against the bed's headboard, legs crossed. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead; strands of his wheat colored hair stuck to his skin. His eyelids hung heavy over his irises. Desire burned through their murky blue depths. "I didn't cum," he whined.

"Clear off! Take care of it yourself, you damn pig." Arthur sat up with slow, precise motions. His hand reach behind to massage his lower back. His eyes squinted with pain, but he refused to cry out anymore. "Goddammit. You sure cocked this one up."

"Sorry." Alfred wrapped his hand around his dick. Even Arthur's kicking and shouting couldn't calm the raging organ. It was one of the disadvantages of being young. They were only sophomores, after all. "I probably didn't prepare you enough. Next time I'll do better."

"Probably?" Arthur scoffed. "And what do you mean 'next time?' You honestly think I'll let you do _that_ again?"

A lazy smile fluttered across Alfred's face, and his eyes clamped shut. A stifled moan roses from his chest. He had no technique, no rhythm, no tact. He simply ran his slicked palm up and down his length. He had a goal in mind; how it was achieved didn't particularly matter. Once or twice, he pulled a little too strongly, or he gripped a bit too tightly. What appeared to be a painful motion drew out his loudest gasps and pants. His mouth parted; trails of saliva connected his lips.

Arthur's throat turned into a dry desert. His Adam's apple bobbed as he tried to swallow his growing discomfort. Each of Alfred's movements, each sloppy pump fell in the corner of his vision. Fascination bubbled in his naval. "Per-" Arthur coughed. "Perhaps, if we go a bit slower."

Alfred's grin grew until it stretched from ear-to-ear. "Sure thing."

They couldn't help it. They were young, after all.

After dinner, Arthur and Fran rise from their seats at the head table. While many people move to the dance floor, they mingle, arm-in-arm. They move from one person to the next, never spending more than two minutes with an individual.

Alfred guesses he has another ten minutes before they approach him. He wonders what he'll say to them; so many ideas fly around his head. An ugly monster probes his head. Its long fingers burrow into his thoughts, tainting and rotting them.

He would ask to borrow Fran for a minute; he would put his hand on her shoulder and pull her away, just out of Arthur's hearing range. He'd tell her the truth. He'd spit it in her face. He'd watch her beautiful face contort, watch the joy bleed from her eyes. "I fucked him all throughout high school, even after you started dating." "When Arthur dropped you at your house after prom, he came to me, and I fucked him until the sun light came back. I fucked him until he couldn't see straight." "He chose me, not you. Me."

Would she cry? Slap him?

He hears a light, feminine voice cry out, "Alfred Jones, is that you?" He stands in time to be pulled into a crushing hug. He feels Fran's breast press against his chest. He looks down at her. She's even prettier up close, if it's possible, and he despises her for it. Darkness fills his brain. He pulls his smile back into place.

"Fran," he says, stepping back and holding her at arm's length. He scans her dress. "You look lovely. Arthur's a lucky man."

"You bet he is." Arthur slides into place, snaking an arm around Fran's waist. His still wears his mega-watt grin like he's the happiest man alive. "I'm glad you could make it. Tonight wouldn't have been the same without you. " There is nothing hidden in his voice; no regret or longing cowers in the shadows of his speech. His tone is clear. He isn't meeting a man he was once intimate with; he's meeting an old friend turned acquaintance. Nothing more. Hell, the line sounds prerecorded, like he repeats it to everyone he crosses.

"No problem. I wouldn't have missed it for the world."

Arthur clasps his shoulder. Through his shirt's fabric he feels the light pressure of three fingers pressing down. Were Arthur's hands always so small? He can't remember, but the pressure burns through his shirt and scars him. "It means a lot."

"So, Alfie—" Alfred cringes at the nickname; he hasn't heard it in years— "where's your plus one?" Fran asks, winking.

He looks for a sign of distress in Arthur's features. There is none. He pulls away from Arthur's grip. He scratches the back of his head. "Well, I'm single right now. You know how it is." He stops; his smile drops for a second before it rebounds. "Or, I guess you don't. It's your wedding and all."

Arthur and Fran share a light laugh. "Don't worry about it, Chap."

"Yeah, I'm sure the right woman will waltz into your life sooner than you think. Then we'll be the ones at your wedding." She gives him another wink, and he wonders if she developed some brain malfunction that causes her to wink an obnoxious number of times. "Oh, there's Antonio."

Arthur sighs and shakes his head, but he doesn't seem really annoyed. His eyes still beam. "Well, I suppose we must go say hello. We'll catch up later, right?"

"Of course," Alfred says.

"See you later, Alfred. By the way, that's a nice shirt. The color goes well with your complexion." Another winks comes his way. He glances down. Red wine, Arthur's favorite color, stares back.

Then they're gone, speaking to the next person. He swears he hears Arthur say, "I'm glad you made it..."

He knew he wasn't going to see them again. How he knew was a mystery, but the knowledge was there nonetheless, sitting in the pit of his stomach. Even worse, they didn't seem to realize it. They didn't notice his uncharacteristic quietness, the jealousy stirring behind his eyes. They acted like they usually did—happy and in love.

Fran clasped onto Arthur's hand. Their interlocking fingers was an interesting sight. Arthur's fingers weren't exactly short, but they were boxy and thick. Fran's were long and spider-like, and each nail was painted a sunny yellow.

He walked three feet behind them, glaring at their joined hands.

The three of them marched along the walking path that cut through the forests surrounding their town. They were fresh graduates, free from high school's demonic clutches, and new beginnings laid before them, ripe for the picking. Last summer when they looked at colleges, they had applied to all the same universities. By some twist of fate, they were all accepted into the same university, even Alfred with his crummy G.P.A.

"Hey, Alfred, have you contacted your roommate, yet?" Fran asked, spinning around to face him.

"No."

"Well, why not? I still can't believe you didn't room with Arthur. It would have been so much easier. You two practically live together in the first place. Right, Pumpkin?"

Arthur cringed but not at the nickname. He shot Alfred a quick glare, a silent "don't you dare." When signing up for housing, Arthur had made it clear. Whatever happened between them in high school was over. "It's better we expand our horizons, meet new people, and all that shit," Arthur said, shrugging.

"Whatever you say."

"Yeah, whatever you say," Alfred echoed. He didn't tell them the truth. He withdrew from that university weeks ago and applied to culinary school. There would be no goodbyes or heartfelt moments or friendship. One day Alfred just wasn't there.

He stops at a gas station blocks away from his apartment. He shuffles through the aisles to the back and slips into the bathroom. He turns to the mirror. The skin around his eyes is puffy and pink. His eyes, themselves, have a watery filter covering their surfaces. He turns the sink's faucet. Cold water bursts from the pipes.

He cups his hands under the stream. They fill, and freezing water begins to overflow. The icy shards are cooling against his agitated skin. He sighs. He repeats the process. Fill and splash. Fill and splash. Puddles form on the ground around him.

Things could have been different, he thinks. Instead of Fran and Arthur's wedding, he would have been at Fran and some stranger's wedding. Arthur would have been his plus one; years wouldn't have passed without them seeing each other. If only he had said something to Fran that bright morning. If only he told her about Arthur and him then, she might have given up. Arthur might have chosen him, not her.

But he chose her.

Tearing sheets of paper towel from the dispenser, he blots away the liquid. His skin is red, but he no longer looks near tears. "Good enough," he says. He retraces his path through the gas station to his car. It takes five minutes to reach his apartment.

He lives on the fifth floor, sixth unit. He opts for the steps instead of the elevator; stairs delay his arrival by fifty-some seconds. He unearths his key, shoves it into the keyhole, and listens to the turners click.

Inside, the television provides the room's sole illumination. Its blue-white light floods the area, leaking into the kitchen. The nightly news drones on, filling his head with a comfortable nonsense. He shuffles across the room to the light switch and flips the second nub. The kitchen's overhead light flutters to life. "I'm home," he says.

Ivan sits up, poking his head over the couch's back. "Where were you?" he asks.

Alfred moves into the kitchen. From the freezer he pulls a large bottle of Russian Standard; from the fridge he grabs a pitcher of fresh grapefruit juice. "A wedding," he answers at long last.

The other man is silent; he watches Alfred dig through a cupboard. "Grab me one, too." He turns around, refocusing on the television.

Alfred pours their drinks, returns the ingredients to their rightful place, and sighs. A glass in either hand, he walks to the living room. He offers one to Ivan who accepts with a soft, "thank you." He sits next to the other man. He almost sighs again but catches himself.

"Damn," Ivan hisses. He holds his glass away as though it will bite him. "You went a tad overboard with the vodka."

"That's rich, coming from you." Alfred sips away. His throat burns in protest. "What do you think of this shirt?"

Ivan cocks an eyebrow at him. He sets his drink aside, and his lips turn down into a small frown. "It's a bit too overpowering. I much prefer you in pastels. They make your eyes smolder."

Alfred nods to himself. He tosses his head back and knocks down the rest of his cocktail. Warmth rushes to his head. He unbuttons the top of his shirt and pulls his tie loose. "I thought you prefer me in nothing."

The minuscule frown disappears. "Well, I wasn't aware that was an option."

Alfred laughs. His head feels fuzzy; he almost feels like himself again. He bats his eyes and flirts a little. Nothing difficult. If Ivan isn't in the mood... That can be remedied quickly. The man has the sex drive of a rabbit. All he has to do is play his cards right, and he'll be impaled and thoroughly fucked until he falls into a orgasm induced slumber.

He climbs onto Ivan's lap and straddles him. This...this he can do.

Sex is easy.

Love is impossible.


End file.
